


Miroirs

by illusivepunk



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Gen, Horror, No Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusivepunk/pseuds/illusivepunk
Summary: Since she was a child, Hermione has always dreamed. Dreamed of a kind, caring doll, a strange man in a wheelchair, and a sickly town called Yharnam. She had thought the place a figment of her imagination - a symbol of her troubled, traumatic childhood.As she grows older and more insightful, she realises that Yharnam is not just a dream. That she has not woken up. And if she wishes to escape the accursed Hunter's Dream and stop the scourge of Beasts...Hermione must join the Hunt.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue

The Grangers were, Dr Pensey noted, a rather dull and uninteresting couple. 

From the eyes of society they were no doubt successful. They ran a small and well-off dentist practice and had met each other during their study, as more and more young people often did these days. A few off-handed remarks and gentle questions was enough to reveal that between the pair of them, they’d had good, stable upbringings, and while his specialty wasn’t in relationship counselling, he could tell straight away that their marriage was also of the dependable sort. 

All in all, they were the exact sort of people Dr Pensey simultaneously liked and was bored by. People like the Grangers brought in a steady flow of money when they came to his clinic, and yet they did so for the most trivial and uninteresting things. An explanation and a placebo pill was enough to placate them, and Pensey wasn’t the sort of doctor who liked to string people along for guaranteed revenue. He still had his own research to attend to.

Their daughter, Hermione Granger, however? She was far from uninteresting.

She was small for her size, with hair that would soon take after her mother’s in thickness. She was crouched in the small playroom, doodling on a large piece of paper with some crayons, stopping occasionally to cough into her handkerchief. At first glance, there was nothing special about her. She was just an ordinary, sickly little child. 

Mr and Mrs Granger were sitting with him in his office as he made some preliminary notes on his clipboard. “And how long has she had this respiratory condition for?”

“The doctors said there was a small abnormality with her lungs at birth, but it’s only manifested recently.” Mr Granger said. “She’d started coughing a few months ago. We saw the doctor about a few weeks ago when it looked like blood, but he doesn’t know what the cause is.”

“I see,” Dr Persey noted, jotting it down onto the sheet, “and these… incidents, they started during that time?”

Mrs Granger spoke up. “Hermione’s always been an imaginative child. The last specialist we saw dismissed our concerns. He said that Hermione’s tales were peculiar but not out of the ordinary.” 

Dr Persey looked up in surprise. He hadn’t realised they’d seen someone else. “And what did you see him for?”

At this question, both the Grangers shuffled about uncomfortably.

The psychiatrist tapped his pen on the clipboard in irritation. “I understand that things are stressful, but if these sessions are going to work, you’re going to have to be completely and utterly honest with me. I promise that nothing will leave the doors of this clinic.”

Slowly, Mrs Granger glanced at her husband, and at his approving nod, opened her mouth. “She… she... ” The woman swallowed heavily, the words stuck in her throat.

“She’s been sleepwalking.” Mr Granger interrupted, unwilling to pass this burden onto his wife. “I understand that’s not unusual in and of itself, and we thought nothing of it. However, the intensity and severity of her sleepwalking increased. Sometimes, we’d wake up and hear her marching around in her room. One time my wife found her rummaging through the drawers of our desks in the study. This was at 1:30 AM.”

Mrs Granger was gripping her husband’s hand tightly. Her mouth was tightly sealed, chest twitching in sharp staccatos. Out of politeness and appearance’s sake, she was holding back the sobs, which were starting to build up with each word. 

Dr Pensey ignored this. He was smoothly writing down Mr Granger’s explanation, underlining the phrase, _rummaged through drawers while sleepwalking._ “And did she seem to respond to any external stimuli?” 

Mr Granger shook his head. “Nothing seemed to wake her. We tried calling her name, tapping her on the shoulder, clapping, loud noises. We even tried splashing her with water. It was almost like she was stuck in… stuck in a trance, of sorts. Or a hallucination. And when she did wake up, it was of her own accord.” 

At this, Mrs Granger broke down; she could no longer hold in her crying. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she sobbed, turning to her husband for comfort. Mr Granger held her close, soothing her with soft-spoken, soothing murmurs.

Absentmindedly, Dr Pensey took the tissue box from his desk and passed it to them, all the while still focused on his clipboard. It was unusual for a child of Hermione’s age and upbringing to have sleep issues this severe, and his curiosity was now piqued. His nose twitched as Mrs Granger sharply blew her nose, disrupting the stillness of the office like a gunshot, but he ignored it. Distressed parents were nothing new to his clinic. 

“I’m t-t-terribly s-sorry.” Mrs Granger choked, blowing her nose again. She pulled another wad of tissues out to wipe away her tears. “I d-don’t k-know what’s come over me.” 

“It’s quite alright.” Dr Pensey answered, putting his pen down. “Now, there’s something I’m rather curious about. Hermione’s sleep issues sound like they should be addressed by a sleeping disorder specialist, perhaps in conjunction with respiratory therapy, as her sleepwalking and coughing may be linked. And yet, you come to see me. Why is that?” 

“W-Well, we had heard you specialised in… unusual cases.” 

“And she’s already been to see a sleep clinic,” Mr Granger added, “the specialist for that clinic was the one who dismissed us.” 

Dr Pensey raised an eyebrow. While he was far from an expert in the realm of sleeping disorders, it sounded like whoever they’d seen was more amateur than professional if they had dismissed their daughter’s case. Still, he couldn’t fault them for bringing more business to his door. “I’m happy to refer you onto another sleep clinic if need be. Hermione, from what you’ve told me, is rather gifted, and in tandem with boredom, isolation and poor health, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that she’s - well, _conjured_ up some fanciful scenarios. Because of that, the only unusual thing I see is that she is having such intense sleepwalking episodes. Is there anything else that you’ve found unusual?” 

Silence dawned in the room. Dr Pensey didn’t press them, patiently waiting for them to collect themselves in their own time. The silence in the room was only punctuated by the ticking of the old grandfather clock, as he kept his face blank and professional.

Eventually, Mr Granger took a deep breath. “Well, my wife and I thought the same. However, last week…” he swallowed, and took another brief pause. Mr Granger was a strong, stocky sort of bloke, the sort you could imagine deep in the centre of any rugby scrum. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d see like this: visibly shaken, eyes closed, collecting himself before he could even answer. “Last week… my wife and I were sleeping.” 

Mrs Granger burst into tears again. He held her tightly, face grimly set as he took another breath, resolving to finish what he started. “It wasn’t a good night. I remember that there was a bad storm, and we were both tired. In the middle of the night, I woke up to a scream, and turned around.” 

Mrs Granger was sobbing increasingly loudly, to the point that it sounded like wailing.

Dr Pensey leaned forward. “What happened?” 

“Hermione was standing over my wife, with a knife in her hand, raised over her stomach.” 

  
  


-

Inside the room, Hermione had started to hum to herself as she scribbled and drew intently, the lines of the crayon going wildly across the paper in endless loops. “Plip, plop. Plip, plop,” she whispered, staring at her scribbles with wide, open eyes. 

From the dark, with invisible words, came the keen reply. 

_Splish, splash. Splish, splash._


	2. The peculiar Miss Granger - 1

Millicent

There was something wrong with Hermione Granger.

This was something that everybody knew, of course. Her rasping coughs seemed to increase in severity with each passing year, to the point where Professor Snape, annoyed at its interruption in Potions class, had deducted House points for every cough. She was pale from lack of sunlight and stick thin, her bushy hair only accentuating that she looked more like a skeleton than a well-groomed witch. She was often by herself, or with Loony Lovegood. Sometimes Granger would be talking to Potter, but Millicent never got the sense that they were close - or even good - friends. 

They had Charms class with the Gryffindors. Millicent was watching her keenly now. Granger always seemed to be daydreaming in class, staring off into space or with her head stuck inside a book. Despite that, she was always top of their year in their core classes. Granger also seemed to have a talent for going unnoticed and unseen; now that she thought of it, had she ever been a target?

Millicent thumbed the silver “I” stuck to her robes, a cruel smile coming to her lips. Draco and Pansy had spent all of last night coming up with _delicious_ ways to torment the Gryffindors, particularly Potter and Weasley. The aegis of their new position under Umbridge’s control of Hogwarts protected them from any backlash, and Gryffindor was now firmly in the red on points, pushing Slytherin well ahead for the House cup. 

Power corrupts, they say. Millicent had always been rather... thick-boned, and because of that, when she wanted her way she preferred to be more hands on. But this sort of power? She could get used to this. If this was what corruption felt like, then she rather liked the feeling.

During their free charms practice, Millicent quietly leaned over to the other members of the Inquisitorial squad. “I’m going after Granger at lunch.” She muttered.

She expected support, or accolades. _Nobody_ had thought of attacking Granger, after all, even though everything about her screamed victim. 

Instead, Draco gave her a cold look. “What do you think the point would be?” 

“Look at that filthy mudblood.” Millicent neglected to mention that she herself, despite being born into a pureblooded family, was a half-blood. “She’s always by herself. Always coughing. Why don’t we ever think to go after her?” 

Pansy gave a small cackle. “You know, Milly has a point, Draco. It’s always ‘Potter this, Potter that’. Why don’t we take a break for now, and hunt easier prey? It’d be _easy_ to deduct points from her.” 

“Gryffindor will go on record this year as having the most points ever deducted!” Millicent added with a shriek of laughter. 

Draco turned to stare at her. Her laughter quickly stopped.

Gone was the cruel maliciousness in his eyes, replaced by a stone cold stillness. “If you want to go after Granger, be my guest. But I’ll have nothing to do with her.”

Pansy whined, “but Draco - ”

“Nothing to do with her. Did you not understand the first time?” There was venom in his voice, but also an alien uneasiness. 

That was, in hindsight, the first warning. But Millicent was not the sort of girl who was easily cowed by a challenge, and she hardly expected Granger to be any sort of challenge. If anything, it seemed absurd that everybody kept their distance from her. What was she going to do? Hex them? The girl’s spellwork was fine enough to get high grades, but Millicent doubted she had the stamina to string together more than a handful of spells. Cough blood at them? _Ha._

At lunch, Millicent kept watch on her, shoving sausages and ham into her mouth. Granger didn’t seem to eat much; she picked at her food more than she ate it. She was one of the first people to leave the dining hall, shuffling out quietly. Nobody seemed to notice. 

Millicent excused herself and followed. She hurried after Granger with quick, long strides, marvelling at how easy this was. Gryffindors weren’t Hufflepuffs - they didn’t travel in large packs, but it wasn’t easy to corner one by themselves without another in earshot, quick to swoop in and defend them. 

Granger walked oddly. Her head was off-centre as she walked, as if she wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, even though every step seemed deliberate. It was almost like she was walking in a daze, and something was pulling her along, guiding her every step. She navigated the Grand Staircase with ease, hopping over each vanishing step with eerie grace, up towards the seventh floor corridor.

The corridor was empty. Millicent recognised the opportunity and took it. “Granger!” 

The thin girl stopped half-step. “What do you want, Millicent?” 

Dully, a part of Millicent thought it was odd that she had recognised her before she even turned around, but she ignored it, gleefully marching up to her. “What are you up to, Granger? Leaving the Dining Hall early?” 

Granger turned around. She stood calm, relaxed, although there was a tightness in her shoulders. “Is that a crime?”

“Some might find it suspicious. Odd. As if you’re up to no good.” Millicent glanced at the parchment in her hand. “Hand it over.” 

Without hesitation, Granger passed it over for Millicent’s inspection. The Slytherin quickly recognised it as a Transfiguration essay: homework that was due for tomorrow’s class. Millicent hadn’t started yet. “I’ll need to keep this. Make sure that there’s no hidden messages. I’m sure you understand.” 

“Keep it.” The girl said, turning around to continue on her way.

“I haven’t dismissed you yet!” Millicent shrieked. “Thirty points from Gryffindor!” 

“I don’t care.” 

Millicent was thick-boned. That was what her parents often said, when they introduced her to other families of good name and blood. It was a polite way of skirting around the obvious, and though it was left unspoken, Millicent knew what went behind her back. The lips that curled as she walked past, the barely covered sniggers. She didn’t care, though. She was no great duellist, so she used her size and her strength to retaliate the best way she knew how, restraining herself _just enough_ so that nothing was permanent or visible. She was still a Slytherin, after all. 

When Granger turned around, Millicent did the only thing she knew how to do: get physical. She grabbed her wrist, holding it tightly in a crushing, vice-like grip. She needn’t have used so much strength, she knew - but it was about making a statement more than anything else, now. It was _never wise_ to turn your back to a student in the House of the Snakes. 

Millicent was strong. When she pushed, others often caved, and she picked her victims well - no seniors, no Quidditch players. That was why she was taken unawares when Granger - weird, creepy, _sick_ Granger - fought back. 

The point of her elbow came out of nowhere, smacking into the side of Millicent’s head. Her arms were thin and lacked muscle, but that only made her elbow feel sharper. The Slytherin felt her jaw click, the shock more pronounced than the pain. 

_She hit me. She HIT me._

With a scream, Millicent saw only red. She threw several punches, and one of them landed cleanly on Granger’s cheek with a _smack_ . That would have been enough to knock her lights out, but to the Slytherin’s shock, the girl only grit her teeth, stepping forward and slamming her head down on Millicent’s chin. 

Tears came to her eyes. She howled and lunged forward but the Gryffindor had already left; she’d stepped off to the side with surprising quickness. Before Millicent could spin, she’d hopped back again to clear more space. Her wand whipped out, tightly gripped in her left hand as her right hand curled into a fist, as if holding an invisible weapon.

 _“Petrificus Totalus!”_

The full body-bind curse hit Millicent cleanly. Her body froze, stuck in this crouched lunge. With all the momentum stopped, her body teetered over and fell to the floor. 

Underneath the curse, Millicent raged. She tried to scream, but couldn’t so she screamed loudly in her mind. She _would_ have Granger’s head for this. She would hunt her down, and nowhere, not even her House common room, would be safe. She’d hunt down the filthy mudblood, and torment her, and make her wish she’d never been born, that she’d never come to Hogwarts. 

A shadow loomed over her. Millicent realised that it was Granger, as her head appeared in her peripheral vision. Soon, her body followed, as she stood over Millicent’s body.

Millicent braced herself for the gloating. For the taunts, for the threats, for _something_ to come out of her mouth. But Granger only stood there, staring at her, face unknowable. Her eyes were red, sunken, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, as if her face was saying enough. 

_Say something. Say anything._

Granger shifted. There was something in her hand. Something she’d taken out of her robes. A corked vial, it looked like, of red, bubbling liquid. Granger was staring down at her thoughtfully. Her hand teetered upwards, hesitant, as if she was unsure of her next move.

With a _pop_ , the cork came off. 

Millicent felt cold. 


	3. The peculiar Miss Granger - 2

**Minerva**

There was a bitterness in the air. The streets of muggle London were often like this: overcast, dreary, damp. In the silent suburbs, far away from the hustle and bustle of the main centres, the bitterness still lingered. Even the familiar scent of petrichor was more metallic, more concrete. 

Or perhaps Minerva had spent too much of her life on the vast grounds of Hogwarts. Even the rush of a school year seemed slow in comparison to the muggle urban delirium of waking up, commuting, going to work, going home, and taking care of your children. The world had gotten much more complicated since her childhood in the Scottish Highlands, and often she got the sense that the relief she saw on muggleborn parents’ faces came not just from an explanation of all the unusual things occurring around their child, but also a relief that they would be taken away for most of the year.

Minerva banished her thoughts, glancing down at the letter before looking back up at the house. This was one of the finest houses on the street - or would’ve been, had it been more well-maintained. Moss and vines snaked over the brick exterior, and the garden ran wild and free. She walked up to the steps and knocked on the door.

After a minute of waiting, she knocked again. 

Another minute passed. As Minerva contemplated the ethics of using the unlocking charm in broad daylight, she heard a rustling from the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” A voice softly whispered. It was not an adult’s voice, but that of a girl’s. 

“Good morning,” Minerva said, “is your guardian at home?” 

“I’m not sure if she’s awake.” Slowly, the girl opened the door, looking at her with a frown. “Your hat is funny. Like it’s from the olden times.” 

Minerva’s lip slightly curled. “Perhaps, then, I too am from the olden times. Can you call your mother, please?” 

The girl went upstairs. Minerva stood and waited, with all the endless patience that being a teacher brought. As she was a stranger on someone else’s doorstep, she hardly resented them for the uninterrupted visit.

After a few moments, their mother came down the stairway, rubbing her eyes. 

Minerva cleared her throat. The woman looked far too pale, even by London standards, as if she’d hardly seen the sun, with hair that was unkempt and unwashed. “Mrs Granger?” 

“It’s just Ms Granger now, I’m afraid. Can I help you?” She said, crossing her arms. 

“My apologies. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. May I please come in?” 

Warily, Ms Granger gestured her into the living room. There were no family photos, the sharp-eyed Minerva noticed - only photos of Ms Granger’s daughter. An unpleasant, moldy odour permeated the house, sharply disguised by strong, regularly puffs of floral sprays and judicious use of scented candles. 

Ms Granger was clearly perturbed at her eccentric appearance, something which Minerva didn’t take personally, but still offered her tea and biscuits, which the witch declined, suspecting that the woman’s kitchenware was in a similar state of neglect to her house. At least the sofa was rather comfortable.

“Hogwarts, you say? I’ve never heard of it.” Ms Granger said thoughtfully, pulling up a dining chair on the opposite side and taking a seat.

“It’s a private school in Scotland - exclusive. We prefer to… shall we say, keep our affairs to ourselves. Your daughter was specially selected.” 

The girl was sitting next to her mother, looking at the Professor curiously. “Why was I selected?” 

Minerva gave her a small, grandmotherly smile. “You, young Hermione Granger, are rather special.” 

That was the wrong thing to say.

The temperature did not change, but it was like the iciness of the London cold had suddenly come rushing through the doors of the house. The girl’s face whitened like a sheet, and red came to Ms Granger’s cheeks, her lips drawing tautly together like tightly wound wire. 

“I’d like you to leave, please.” Ms Granger whispered, a hoarse edge creeping into her voice.

In her many years of visiting muggle families, Minerva was rarely taken aback. “Ms Granger, please. At the very least, allow me to explain - ”

The girl looked up at her mother. “Mummy, is she going to take Hermione away again?” 

“She won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.” 

The witch’s heart sank. She swallowed, shaking her head. “I’m  _ terribly  _ sorry, Ms Granger. I saw the photos on your wall and made a horrible assumption that you only had one daughter! Is Hermione here?” 

“You don’t understand. Hermione isn’t going to any more special schools, or special ‘daycares’,” Ms Granger stood up, spitting the phrase out mockingly, “she’s perfectly happy where she is. Now unless you’re a government representative or have a legal permit to take her, I’m…” 

As a general rule of thumb, Minerva preferred to explain her presence, and then demonstrate the truth of what she was saying. If all else failed, however, there was always one way to get things back on track. 

The witch stood up and transformed. The world around her expanded as she contracted, shrinking down into her feline animagus form. She stretched, enjoying the sensation of her animal limbs and muscles, before she transformed into a human again.

Both mother and daughter were staring at her, mouths ajar. 

The Hogwarts Professor gave a polite  _ ‘hem-hem’  _ to clear her throat. “And now that is out of the way, please allow me to explain myself.” 

-

“Please don’t take offense if she’s blunt, or seems somewhat rude to you.” Ms Granger apologised as the two of them headed up the stairs to Hermione’s room. The woman had asked her younger daughter, Perdita, to stay downstairs, as Minerva preferred to have this chat in private. “It’s very rare that we get visitors in general, let alone visitors for Hermione. And with these… revelations - ” Ms Granger paused.

Ms Granger had listened to her quietly as she explained everything. That Hogwarts was a school to learn magic, that Hermione was a witch. That unusual things around her happened not because of miraculous circumstances, but because of accidental magic, and that she was able to learn how to control it. 

The former dentist had to excuse herself to go to the bathroom. Minerva pretended that she didn’t hear the sobbing through the walls. 

When she returned, Ms Granger told Professor McGonagall what had happened. Why she was so suspicious. 

By no means did Minerva harbour anti-muggle sentiments, like the devout purebloods in the Ministry. In this day and age, such sentiments should be a thing of the past. Still, she couldn’t help but feel, sometimes, that there was a nugget of truth. Muggles could be so awfully barbaric at times, although she knew that wizards hardly had a spotless reputation. Even so...

Ms Granger knocked on the door. “Hermione,” she called softly, “you have a visitor.” The two of them waited a moment, and then the mother nodded. “She’s awake, and that was just to give her a moment to prepare. You can go in.” 

The room was immaculate, although a thin coat of dust painted some of the furniture. The curtains were drawn, with only a sliver of light creeping through, illuminating the sheets of the bed, which had been tucked in perfectly. Apart from the books strewn across the desk, this room looked like it hadn’t been used much, if at all - hardly the room of a recluse. 

Hermione was lying on the floor. Next to her, there was a small porcelain doll - an old-fashioned sort of doll, with a bonnet for a hat and a Victorian dress, of which Minerva had not seen in the muggle world for many years now. She had a sketchbook open, and she was drawing a flower - it looked like a sunflower, but instead of yellow petals, it had white petals. Quite peculiar. “I heard you talking to my mother,” she said. Her voice was quiet and raspy, as if something was stuck in her chest. Ms Granger said she had a childhood illness.

Minerva pulled up the only chair in the room and sat down. “And how much did you hear?” 

Hermione put her pencil down. She sat up, looking at her with wide, strange eyes. “Is it true? That I can do magic? That  _ you  _ can do magic?” 

The witch simply nodded. 

The girl was still for a moment, before speaking up again. “Can you… you know…”

Minerva drew her wand and turned the girl’s sketchbook into a dove. The dove stretched its wings and leapt up, flying circles above them. Hermione watched it do several orbits with delight, before Minerva made it return to the floor and transform back into a sketchbook. 

“Yes, Miss Granger, you can learn to do that.” Minerva said, pocketing her wand. “It is a branch of spellcraft called Transfiguration, one that you could say I’m  _ quite  _ good at. In time, you will also learn this particular spell.” 

“What about... dreams?” 

Minerva raised an eyebrow.  _ And a peculiar question _ . “I do not confess to being an expert in the subject of oneiromancy, but Divination is an elective you may take in third year.” 

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Do witches get - get strong dreams? Like they’re in another place, or another time completely? And they’re vivid, even if you don’t quite remember the details?” 

“That would be a question, I think, for Professor Trelawney.” Minerva pursed her lips in slight distaste. “I’m certain she would be able to help you more than I could. It may be that you have the latent ability of a seer, which would truly be a unique talent.” 

Perhaps sensing that there was nothing to be gained from this line of questioning, Hermione changed the subject. “So there really are people out there? Like me?” 

“An entire population of wizards and witches. We hide our people from people without magic - muggles.” 

Hermione paused once again, deliberating on her words. Finally, she settled on a simple question, gently putting her hand on her doll. “Do you think I’ll make friends?” 

The Professor smiled. “A fellow colleague of mine said it best: one who goes to Hogwarts will always find the place that they belong.” 

In the future, Minerva would reflect on this visit. And she would reflect on these words. Was what came inevitable, and she was too ignorant to have seen it the first time? 

Or was it fate that Hermione Granger was meant to come to Hogwarts? 


	4. The peculiar miss Granger - 3

Trigger warning: This next chapter contains descriptions of mental health hospitals, psychoanalysis, and institutional abuse. There is no graphic physical or sexual content of any kind, but it may be upsetting to some readers.  
  
 **3  
  
The following excerpt is used strictly for reference purposes, thanks to the kind permission of the publisher and author.**  
  
Gimbles, J. (2000). _Voices of the Lost: Patients in their own words._ Farnham, England: PCCS Books.  
  
 **Chapter 5**  
Anna Fabric: 1986 - 1987  
  
 _The history of the psychiatric treatment of children has always been possessed with tragedy.  
  
Freud’s infamous psychosexual theories on the development of adolescents, while widely influential, are a marker of our ignorance of the human mind, leading to many strange and old-fashioned practices. On adult patients, many of these treatments were pseudoscientific at best, and on children, many of these treatments were borderline barbaric.  
  
In 1961 Enoch Powell, then Minister of Health, said, "in fifteen years time there may well be needed not more than half as many places in hospitals for mental illness as there are today". Increasing scandals at long-stay mental health hospitals led to wide public concern about the quality of care, and of inhumane practices that went on behind closed doors, ultimately leading to deinstitutionalisation.  
  
“Anna Fabric” was a patient at the now infamous Peacelily private mental health hospital, set up and dedicated to be a juvenile-only institution by a private patron. Overseen initially by the late Dr R., then eventually by Dr P., the institution operated for close to a decade before eventually burning down due to a gas leak.  
  
The excerpts here are taken from the remnants of her diary, discovered in miraculous condition after the fire. Names have been changed in order to protect the patients’ identities._  
  
 **June 8**  
  
They restrained the girl in room 4 again.  
  
I could hear her screaming. Dr P said that the screaming girl was naughty, and that was why they restrained her, but I don’t think that’s true. I know that they were restraining Sam, in room 8. His arms were red and it looked like there were insect bites all across where they had restrained him, and he was rubbing his arms when we were lining up for food.  
  
I don’t understand why they restrained him. Sam was good. He always wanted to please the nurses, and they all said he was a nice boy. They always said he was a nice boy when I was not being a nice girl.  
  
The girl in room 4 must be clever though. I can still hear her wandering around at night. She’s muttering something, but I don’t know what.  
  
 **June 12**  
  
I had an appointment with Dr P today. He tried to talk to me, but I still can’t talk good. I had to write down everything, because when I tried to talk, my mouth was opening and I was thinking the words but they came out really slowly.  
  
I’m embarrassed because I cried again. I keep trying and trying all the things he tells me to do, but even when I do say something properly, I stutter.  
  
Dr P just smiled at me and told me there was a special treatment he could give me, that it could make me talk properly again.  
  
I hope so. I want to go home. I don’t like this place.  
  
 **June 15**  
  
The girl in room 4 came into my room last night.  
  
I woke up and she was there. I know it sounds crazy, because all of our rooms are locked at night. The nurses say it’s to protect us from all the naughty kids here, but I haven’t seen any naughty kids, so maybe the nurses made them up to make sure we were being good.  
  
But I’m not sure if she really did. I think I could’ve been dreaming because I was speaking properly. I was asleep and then I woke up, and asked what she was doing there, just like that. She said that she had just come back from a special place, and asked me what my name was. I told her and asked her what hers was. She said her name was Harriet.  
  
It couldn’t have been real, could it?  
  
 **June 16**  
  
I saw Harriet today.  
  
I don’t ever see her, because she’s always in her room or seeing a nurse for her special treatments. I had my notepad with me and I asked the nurse what they were doing with her. The nurse said that Harriet had serious issues, and that I shouldn’t talk to her. I guess she must have serious issues if she doesn’t sit with us.  
  
Harriet looked at me before she left. I think it was my imagination though.  
  
 **June 24**  
  
There was an odd smell in my room today.  
  
I told the nurse and she came in to check, but she said she couldn’t find anything. She couldn’t smell anything either.  
  
But I’m sure the smell is there. It smells like blood, but somehow it smells sweeter than blood. I’m not sure how I can describe it. It’s soothing somehow.  
  
 **June 25**  
  
I’m going to be fixed!  
  
Dr P said he knew how to fix me! They x-rayed my brain in the morning and then Dr P said that they would do a special operation on me.  
  
He said I was the first one, and that once it was done, the operation could be used to help everybody else like me. I’m excited.  
  
 **June 26**  
  
I had a dream that Harriet was in my room again.  
  
It must have been a dream because we talked the whole night and when I woke up she wasn’t there.  
  
But it felt so real. I asked her if she could be my friend, and I told her that I liked her hair. I said that I was afraid of my operation and she said that she would pray for me with her friend. She gave me a pretty flower, and it was like a sunflower except it was all white instead of yellow, and told me not to be afraid.  
  
They must be dreams because when I woke up the flower wasn’t there. I must be going crazy though, because I swear I could smell it.  
  
I’m not sure if I should go up to her. The nurse seemed angry the last time I asked about her.  
  
 **June 30**  
  
I had my operation today.  
  
I don’t have energy to write much. My head hurts. Dr P said he sliced something out, and that I needed lots of rest.  
  
 **July 7**  
  
Harriet visited me again last night.  
  
I think she was moved out because I don’t hear her in room 4 no more. I tried to talk to her again but there is something squishy in my head. It sounds like my head is full of water, like when you go swimming and you have to unblock your ears and all this water comes out.  
  
We didn’t talk but she stayed with me.  
  
 **July 10**  
  
Dr P came to vist me again today and askd me if I could talk any better.  
  
I tried to talk to him but I still couldn’t. I stuttred hard when he asked me to recite the alphabat. He said that it migat take tme for the operashun to take affect.  
  
Harriet’s gone. Ive been waiting for her each night, but she’s not here nymore.  
  
I can smell the blood again.  
  
 **July 12**  
  
Sam is gone now to. He was here 1 day and nw he’s gone.  
  
I dont like to right nymore. My bain just hrts.  
  
Im scared. Dr P keeps coming in 2 see me but he gts angry when i cnt.  
  
 **July 18**  
  
 _(The scribbles are indecipherable)_  
  
 **July 24**  
  
Hrrit came again  
  
She saw me and she cryed i tld her tht dr p ws mking me better dnt cry  
  
she said 2 cme with her to c a doll i said i dnt understan  
  
Dr p is gving me elektric shuk 2 my hed he sid it wud mke me betta like it made Hrrit btta  
  
my hud is drppng  
  
 **July 28**  
  
Hrrit hlp me


	5. Childhood's beginning - 1

**4**

  
  


Hermione died. 

She’d died before, she knew, but this was an especially violent one, and death was now a respite from the brief, but shocking moment of agony that came before.

Every time she died, she remembered all of her deaths. The memories cascaded downwards, like shards of glass and crystal glimpsed beneath a murky lake. Each and every death had painted itself across the entirety of her being, before they were hidden away, locked deep in some trauma-ridden part of her subconsciousness. 

That wasn’t surprising. It was unnatural to escape death, and she’d done it three times. 

When she woke up, the scent of moonlight was in the air. Flowers were caressing her limbs and face, welcoming her back like a familiar, comforting duvet. She pulled herself up, running her hands on the old cobblestone and dirt as she stumbled forward, looking around.

Hermione had been here before, she knew. Many times. But now, it felt like something was different. She raised her hands, and it no longer felt like the underwater shimmer of a vivid, perhaps lucid, dream, but one of hard, bitter reality.

“Welcome back, little one.” 

The witch closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she turned to face her. “I know you,” she whispered, “don’t I?” 

The memories were there, beneath that lake, but just out of reach. She knew this strange figure, this odd woman dressed in Victorian finery, with balls for joints, like that of a mechanical contraption, as she gave a courteous bow. “I am merely a Doll. I have looked after you, little one, and will continue to look after you.” The woman smiled serenely. Hermione could see too that her face and skin were porcelain, or some sort of birch wood. “That is what I was made to do.” 

Hermione swallowed. “How many times have I come here?” 

“Many times, little one.” The doll’s smile faded. “But I sense that your spirit is sickly and weakening. Perhaps you should go up to talk to Gehrman, in his workshop.” 

Hermione went up the stairs. Slowly, it was coming back, but in fragments. She couldn’t remember it in order. It was all jumbled up in her head, all mixed together with emotions rather than logic.

_ The laughter of an old man… the comforting, unnatural warmth of artificial white skin…  _

Gehrman was waiting for her in his workshop, cane between his hands. She remembered him too - eyes dark but gleaming with curiosity, and a mysterious smile on his face. “You’ve returned. Just as I knew that you would.”

“How many times have I come here?” She asked again. “The Doll wasn’t specific enough for me. And why can’t I remember anything?”

“Because you’re not meant to be here.” The old man said bluntly. “This is a Dream which beckons Hunters, but I sense something different now. You’ve grown a bit more... _ insightful _ recently, haven’t you? Perhaps with age really does come wisdom.” 

Hermione frowned. “What do you - ” a harsh, ferocious cough erupted from her mouth, and she retched as she tried to swallow it back down. 

“Ah, that sickness isn’t getting any better, is it?” The old man pursed his lips. “A childhood sickness, as I recall you saying, but the sound of that fluid in your lungs is more pervasive now than I remember.” 

She wiped the blood onto the sleeve of her robes, wishing she had a blood replenishing potion on her. “I’ve always been like this.” The witch said defensively. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Gehrman chortled. “On the contrary, little one. You do not remember what I said. This Dream beckons Hunters. That is why, my dear, you have been here since birth. You’ve been chosen, even without a contract. Your destiny is to become a hunter, for if you do not hunt, then you will be trapped in this accursed Hunter’s Dream, and that illness will eventually consume you.” 

Her voice was weak. “That’s ridiculous. This isn’t real. None of this is.” 

The old man shook his head, rapping his cane on the workshop floor with a deep, harsh laugh. “Of course it isn’t real. Don’t think about it all too much. Just go out and kill a few Beasts. Don’t think too hard about anything at all, lest you wreck your nerves, and treat it like a bad dream.” 

Hermione screamed. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she’d finally had enough of trying to make sense of it all, or the absurdity of her plight had finally reached her, or the accumulated deaths she’d experienced had finally caught up to her waking thoughts and was bashing down the doors of her sanity. 

She continued screaming, even as her vision went to black. She hoped it was all really a bad dream, that all the things she knew were her memories were also bad dreams, that she would wake up in her own bed in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitories and she’d forget about it all until the next nightmare came. 

Nightmares were for sleeping. They weren’t for waking up to.

She woke up and looked around. This was not her bed, but an abandoned clinic - bloodied, dark, and empty. 

The smell of blood and moonlight was in the air.

The witch didn’t hesitate. Hermione took an old scalpel, and ran it across her throat. 


	6. Childhood's beginning - 2

**5**

Yharnam had an ugly, simple, cruelty. _Die or don’t die. Kill or be killed._

In many ways, it was comical. The fog rolling through the streets, the bleak and looming architecture that seemed eager to suppress, to surround, the harsh scraping of iron on stone… Hermione could well believe that she was in an inescapable nightmare, something pulled out of the history books and mangled through the vision of thousands of penny dreadfuls. She _wanted_ to believe that this wasn’t real. That none of it was. It was all too strange, too bizarre.

What was Yharnam? Why was she here? Why was she chosen? And yet, she had to. Because every time a bullet whistled past her hair, or pitchfork cleaved through the air, seeking her limb, she knew that this was no mere dream she could wake easily from.

“You! Are not wanted here!” The Yharnamites in the streets did not welcome her. Instead, they attacked her in a howling frenzy, their attacks more like the lashing out of a feral pack of animals than a coordinated mob. She’d tried, first, to reason with them, but she soon realised, after seeing their eyes, that they were beyond all help.

Still, she couldn’t help but reply. “I know. I wish I could leave.” With a flick of her wrist, the cane in her hand _clicked_ and the notches of the hidden whip flipped open, metal teeth eager to sink into open flesh.

Hermione had vomited the first time she had to kill outside the clinic. It wasn’t the sight - she’d read plenty of medical textbooks - but the smell. The putrid mix of incense, blood, and open flesh, all swirling together like some evil potion or brew. And the _smoke_ \- oh, Merlin, the smell of fumes and smoke… it was enough to make her sick.

The man at the front of the mob howled, eyes demented as he barreled forward with his makeshift wooden shield. Hermione leapt out of the way and retorted, whip flying through the air. The metal notches buried themselves into the man’s neck and pulled out with disturbing ease. Drips of dark red rained across her face and shirt as she continued, twirling the whip again and slashing through his chest.  
His body crumpled, but those around him didn’t react to his death. They were already in motion, and her pistol cracked loudly as it fired several shots, interrupting them before she lunged forward, whip glinting in the light of the moon as it made several, whipping arcs, blood raining out like water spouting out of a hose.

_Gilbert was right. Yharnam does have a fine way of treating outsiders._ The sickly man had been the only person she’d been able to hold some form of conversation with.

Her lungs were heaving as their corpses eventually fell to the ground. Hermione didn’t know how many she’d killed. She’d already lost count. The more she did it, the easier she seemed to find it. Taking a deep breath, the witch steeled herself and continued onwards.

The dogs, sitting in their cages, barked at her as she pushed forward, their eyes yellow and rabid. The cages seemed locked, but Hermione was no fool. She’d seen how ferocious they were individually. A dull pang of remorse echoed through her chest as she cut them down, one by one, but this was no time to be merciful.

She’d already died several times in Yharnam. The first two times were by her own doing. A scalpel through her throat, then a willing mauling by a horrific, monstrous werewolf-like beast.

That was… painful. Painful enough to make her accept Yharnam as being real and not a vivid hallucination.

Then simple mistakes caused her death. The shock of the first blood spatter when she finally forced herself to use the wicked and horrific cane the messengers had gifted her. A stray shot from out of nowhere. A surprise attack by a hidden Yharnamite.

Dying hurt. Hermione greatly preferred the land of the living.

There was another mangy dog, barking at an incense-covered door. Hermione promptly disposed of it. She’d learnt quickly that the lanterns gave off the incense the Yharnamites used to ward off Beasts, and so she knocked at the door. “Are you alright?”

The muffled voice of an old woman answered her, suspiciously. Hermione didn’t blame her suspicion. “Oh, a hunter? Do you know of any safe places? You’re obligated to help me, you know that? If you hunters got off your arses, we wouldn't be in this mess!”

Hermione suppressed a sigh. “I don’t, sorry.” All the citizens she knocked on the doors of didn’t seem inclined to share their homes, nor seemed to have any sort of sanity.

“Yeah, I should've known. Ya good-for-nothing... No respect for the elderly is what that is! Yeah, fat lot of good you outsiders do. Go on, admit it, you think we're all mad, don't ya? Well, go and stuff it! I know all yer tricks!"

Shaking her head, Hermione backtracked to the first lantern, taking a moment to regroup.

The lantern didn’t seem to be visible to others. Gilbert hadn’t noticed its existence outside his window, and touching it sent her back to the Hunter’s Dream. She didn’t know how or why it existed. The witch in her offered all sorts of logical, magical explanations. There was something safe and sane in logic. A notice-me-not charm, perhaps, or a repelling ward?

As she sat down, the messengers bubbled into existence at the bottom of the lantern. Their faces were twisted, but there was no denying their eagerness as they looked up at her expectantly.

Hermione checked her supplies. “More blood vials, please. And some bullets, if you can find any?” She uncorked a vial and downed it, the sweet, metallic acidity filling her mouth and restoring some clarity to her vision.

A moment later, the messengers came back, offering her what they could find. She knew she’d have to return to the Hunter’s Dream if she needed to fully restock, but if she returned, she feared all the fatigue would come crashing down on her shoulders and she’d collapse. For now, she wanted to keep exploring, especially the other side of Central Yharnam and the Great Bridge. Gilbert told her that it was closed during the night of the Hunt, but if there was anyone else there alive, it was her duty to help them.

Taking a deep breath, she stood up and set off again.

It wasn’t hard, pushing through to the Great Bridge. She kept plenty of molotovs on hand for the wolves, and the trolls were like the trolls in the magical world - slow, and not too clever. She wasn't 11 years old anymore, screaming in the girls' bathroom with nobody to save her.

_I’m nearly there._ Hermione pushed forward, towards the door at the end of the Great Bridge. If there were other survivors, or other, better Hunters…

A screech rang through the night, piercing the air. She froze, her blood cold.

Leaping over the bridge, a monstrous beast, larger than anything she’d ever seen, landed in front of her with a rumble, ground quaking beneath its weight. It glared at her, horns twisted, fur flowing like a cape. There was savagery in those eyes, but a keen, almost human-like cunning.

It roared. The fear pulsed like quicksilver through her, but she somehow forced herself to look up at it. Gripping her cane, Hermione tensed, before leaping forward into battle.

She wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.


End file.
